


This is What He Knew

by jawnlovesjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Happy, Internal Thoughts, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Overly romantic, Sappy, feel good, shamelessly lovey dovey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7005382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawnlovesjumpers/pseuds/jawnlovesjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's inner love letter to Sherlock, perhaps in too many words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is What He Knew

**Author's Note:**

> This is just light-hearted fluff, because I needed a break from the deep-dark-depressing stuff I've been working on lately. Completely from John's point of view, in the third person.

    John could easily remember the first time he saw the man. Though he would never have admitted it out loud, in the safety of his own mind he mused, _here is possibly one of the most beautiful people I have ever seen._ His hair was dark, a soft mop of neat curls. His face was angular, cold and uninviting. But when he looked at John, his features were more indulgent. He had eyes that John was convinced he could drown in, if he ever fancied doing so. Every aspect of the man seemed far too beautiful and graceful for an everyday world.

    When those stunning eyes pierced through John, looking into his very soul and analyzing what was seen, it felt as if all of the air in the lab had been sucked out, leaving absolutely none for John’s aching chest to take in. The man –Sherlock, _what a captivating name,_ John thought- dissected John and studied him in his barest form, and it was then that John realised he could never get enough of that look, not in his entire life. He wasn’t sure why, but somehow he just knew. John also knew in that moment that he was dedicated. Right then, right there, was what he wanted for the rest of his life. It did seem silly, even to him, finding such a commitment in such a small amount of time. But he was certain. He knew he could never get enough of that resilient attention, that he never wanted it to stop. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he just knew.

    During their first case, as they ran through the city of London like madmen, John felt as if he had transcended all of reality, like it was only him and Sherlock in the world, and he never wanted that feeling to stop. The adrenaline and the blood pumping fast through his body was _addictive_ , and it made him feel so very much alive. When he first arrived back in London, John felt there wasn’t much to feel alive for, but now, he suddenly found his reason. And it was fast and insane and gorgeous and he knew that this was what he wanted for the rest of his life. And when it was all finally over with, and they could finally catch their breath, John took in Sherlock’s face and the feeling in the air between them, and he tucked them away into his memory, in case he ever needed it as a reminder of what it felt like to be alive, truly alive.

    It was also easy for John to recall the first time he saw Sherlock hurt. It hurt John, perhaps more than was reasonable, and absolutely more than he would ever admit. But John took to his duties as Doctor and patched Sherlock up, healing him physically but feeling helpless emotionally. He never wanted to have to see Sherlock scared, or worried, or going mad from his own mind. He wanted to keep the man safe, to protect him at all costs. He wanted to grab that weightless, _alive_ feeling that Sherlock had given him as they ran through dark alleyways in the rain, and he wanted to give it back to Sherlock. But he knew that he could not always protect Sherlock, and that Sherlock would not always let him. So he sufficed by cleaning Sherlock up after particularly nasty cases, stitching up Sherlock’s wounds with the words he could not yet find himself.

    Despite his best efforts, John often found himself wondering about the detective’s preferences in potential partners, or if perhaps it was true that there was no preference –or desire- at all. John found that hard to believe. But as for his own feelings, he knew that Sherlock was different. John was aware that he often came across as notoriously defensive about his heterosexuality, but he had been romantically interested in men before, though he had never taken any action on it. His feelings for Sherlock, however, rose so far above what he had ever felt for anyone before, man or woman. He could easily picture himself fitting into Sherlock’s elusive arms, resting his head on the man’s shoulder after a long case was finally solved. He could imagine how warm Sherlock was whenever he did sleep, and how comforting his affection would be after a rough day at the surgery. He could easily imagine the two of them, sitting on their bed, John holding Sherlock tight as the man went on about something so completely un-romantic it was almost vile. But, in these whimsical daydreams, John was never really concerned with what Sherlock was saying. He just loved hearing his voice, loved feeling his chest rumble against John as he went on about blood clots or the rate of decay of the human ear. In some of his more daring daydreams, John would imagine Sherlock reciting sappy poetry or whispering soft endearments into John’s ear. But no matter what they were doing, no matter what was being said, one thing was always the same: John would sit on the bed with Sherlock in his arms and hold him forever, never growing bored or tired or wanting anything else that the world could offer him. He would be utterly happy and Sherlock would be utterly safe and John knew that he never wanted it any other way.

     As much as John enjoyed these images, however, he always stopped them before they could continue any further, from fear of how Sherlock would react to them. And John knew that there was no doubt Sherlock would know about them once they were there in John’s mind. Forcing the images away, however, often led John to thoughts about Sherlock’s heart. John was absolutely certain that Sherlock was capable of such a wonderfully different love, and John somehow knew that it would be so fierce and new and something that he would never be able to deserve. He knew that it would be a love that he could never possibly repay. John wasn’t sure if he ever believed in the idea of someone needing a lover or partner to complete them, and he wasn’t exactly sold on the idea of love at first sight, either. No, he didn’t agree that two people were destined to spend the rest of their lives together based on fate alone. But he was sure that, without a doubt, Sherlock had unknowingly lifted a grey shroud that had clouded John’s vision since his return home, and replaced it with such a striking clarity that it sometimes took John by surprise. He wasn’t certain about true love, but he knew that Sherlock had made a wild difference in his life.

    John wanted to stay by Sherlock’s side, running through the city and healing his wounds, until there was no running left to do and no more wounds that needed healing. He never wanted the insanity, the excitement, and the adrenaline rushing through him to stop. John knew it would be dangerous, and he knew he didn’t care. John was a soldier, a doctor, and a friend. He was dedicated, willing to do anything for the graceful man that saved him, to protect his agile soul against this everyday world. Soldier, doctor, and friend: Sherlock’s defender, Sherlock’s caretaker, and Sherlock’s partner. Protect, heal, love: this was what John knew.


End file.
